Zofia laughed. “You’re right. Perhaps I’m afraid that the waterfall of diamonds would distract from—other assets.”
At last Zofia stepped down from the carriage and fell in with the arriving throngs of partygoers. In no time she stood in a reception line at the entrance to the ballroom, wondering how she might avoid greeting the Countess Lubomirska. The line moved surprisingly quickly, however, and before she knew it she stood in front of the countess herself.
The countess was draped in an elaborate robe of white that made her appear as wide as she was tall. A wreathing of myrtle leaves circled the high mound of powdered hair that sat upon a round, puffy face. Zofia thought her perfectly ridiculous.
“You are, no doubt,” Zofia exclaimed, “the great goddess Hera.”
The woman’s round, red mouth flattened into a smile. “How did you guess?”
“I’m an avid student of mythology,” Zofia said, failing to mention she had overheard the countess announcing her identity to the party ahead of her.
“And just who are you? My, you’re a lovely creature.”
“Empress Theodora.”
“I see. How delightful!” The woman’s small eyes narrowed. “Now, who are you truly? I swear I do not recognize you.” Her chubby hand reached out toward Zofia’s mask.
Zofia drew back, smiled. “Ah, but Countess Lubomirska, isn’t that the point?”
The woman was taken aback for a moment, her mouth forming a round circle before emitting a little laugh. “Oh, I suppose you’re right. But I must know before the night is over, do you hear?”
Zofia was then announced as Theodora, Empress of the Byzantine Empire, and a thousand pairs of eyes turned to see her make her entrance.
Even with her face hidden, Zofia was the talk of the ball, and she knew the stir she created. It was easy then to play up to an old baron at Jan Stelnicki’s table. She affected a French accent, charming him and insinuating herself into his group. A chair was acquired where there had been none. The group found it astonishing and amusing that Emperor Justinian’s wife should so miraculously appear and so she was made to sit next to a maskless Jan. Sitting stiffly in his purple Byzantine robe, he was merely polite at first, but as the evening wore on and the French wines flowed, he began to warm.
Several of the men at the table and even a few women seemed political by nature, and conversation often came back to the subject of the Constitution. Zofia hated such talk and did her best to speak of more pleasant and pleasurable things. Her pretense at a poor Polish was fun for her.
Zofia and Jan danced several times. Jan was as handsome as ever, and Zofia was certain they were the subject of much talk. She spoke in an exaggerated whisper, one that she hoped disguised her identity yet held an allure.
“Are you certain we haven’t met?” he asked once as they were returning to their seats, nearly breathless from the triple-time steps of a polonaise.
“I am your wife.”
“No, really. Have we?”
“You must marry one day.”
“How do you know I’m not already married?”
For a moment Zofia found herself entangled in a web of her own making, yet instead of fear at being found out too soon, she felt only the excitement of the chase. “Someone told me.” She smiled confidently.
“Who are you?”
They reached their table now and Zofia was spared further questioning. Did he have a suspicion?
Jan’s behavior toward her, while polite and warm, was a disappointment. When the evening grew late and it became clear that Zofia could have any man in the room except for Jan Stelnicki, she resorted to the final stage of her gameplan. She had hoped it wouldn’t be necessary.
While duty called Jan to dance with the old pockmarked baroness on his other side, Zofia took the opportunity to remove from her tunic a small cobalt-blue vial. She took his half-filled wineglass now, nonchalantly, as if it were hers, held it in her lap as she surveyed the room for anyone watching, and when she was certain no eyes were upon her, she removed the tiny cork and poured the contents of the vial into his glass.
The nighttime streets of Warsaw were silent except for the sounds of an occasional carriage carrying its tired merrymakers home from the magnificent Wilanów Palace on the outskirts of Warsaw. Out of fear of being recognized, Zofia had chosen not to use the Gronski carriage—with its emblazoned coat of arms—and sparing no expense, hired one many times more magnificent.
Jan sat slumped in his place next to her. It had been so easy, she thought, so very easy. Well, why not? Theodora had been an actress, hadn’t she?
When he seemed unwell at the table, she had offered her carriage. She herself was leaving just then, perchance—no, it was no inconvenience at all, she told his friends—and two of the men even helped Jan to the carriage.
She had asked Jan for his address, though she had known it—Henryk was very thorough in his reports. She knew, too, that one old servant woman lived in the back of the premises of the townhome and that she was hard of hearing.
Jan was still in a stupor when the carriage arrived at his home. The driver, clearly thinking Jan drunk but knowing his own place and saying nothing, helped Zofia get him to the door. Jan fumbled with his keys, and finally the door opened. Zofia and the driver struggled to get him up the stairs to his bedchamber.
Zofia dismissed the driver, tipping him well. She returned to the bedchamber. Jan lay on his bed now, seeming to sleep. The bed is so narrow, she thought, coming to stand at its foot. The bed of a single man. Unconscious, Jan was more handsome than ever. Like a sleeping blond angel.
Zofia removed her purple robe. Of course, he would be useless tonight. But in the morning, when he awoke to find her naked in his narrow bed . . . well, he was a man, wasn’t he? She would show him pleasure he hadn’t imagined. She would have him. I do have him. And even if he might somehow overcome temptation, the damage would be done. They will have had a night together. He will know it and at the right time Anna will know it and she will at last give up her obsession with him. And perhaps Zofia, too, would be able to relinquish her own obsession.
Zofia pulled the mask off now and threw it to the floor. She looked up and was surprised to find his eyes open. He seemed to be watching her through drug-dilated eyes.
“Zofia?” he whispered.
She smiled. She waited for him to say more; desire stirred, eddied, and coursed through her. She would enjoy undressing before him. But he disappointed her, slipping again into sleep.
Zofia walked to his dresser, glancing at her reflection in the mirror that hung over it. She was still smiling. It had been so easy. Too easy, she thought for a moment, allowing a fleeting sense of foreboding to alight. She dispelled it at once.
She reached behind her head to remove the ruby necklace. Unclasping it, she placed it on the dresser. She reached now for the ruby earrings—only to find them gone.
Her heart dropped. She grew dizzy, holding on to the dresser for support. Dear God, she thought, where are the earrings? The room seemed to spin about her.
And then she remembered.
She had gone to the lounge just before departing from the ball. She had taken off the mask and the earrings while she freshened her face. It certainly wasn’t her custom to remove her earrings, but the clips had been pinching her all evening and the chance to take a respite from them had been too tempting. Sweet Jesus! She had left the priceless rubies in the lounge just before her departure. Her preoccupation with getting Stelnicki out of the Lubomirski palace had superseded everything.
She breathed deeply now. What was she to do? Had some other guest taken them? She prayed not. There was hope: there had been an attendant and the Lubomirski servants were known for their honesty—the count would not tolerate anything less. With luck, the lost rubies needed only be claimed.
She looked at Jan, felt the desire moving in her veins. Would the rubies be there in the morning? And if she waited would she be able to sleep—or make love with any abandon—worry
ing about them?
Zofia put the necklace back on. Wearing it would prove that it was she who had lost the earrings. She would race to the Lubomirski mansion and return as if on wings. Picking up the mask from the floor, she looked to Jan before leaving. Yes, he sleeps like an angel.
Downstairs she folded her mask in half for thickness and wedged it between the door and its jamb so that she could admit herself when she returned.
39
ANTEK’S FACE WAS HARD AND questioning, yet Anna found his gaze somehow opaque as he surveyed the little group, fastening on her for a split second, then looking to his grandmother.
Nelka glared back at him for long seconds. Then her voice broke the brittle quiet. “The time has come for the evil one to be sent from our midst.” The pursed mouth twitched slightly. She saw at once that her careful plans might be impeded.
Anna looked to Antek, wondering if he had the courage to go against family members. While she sensed that he was not in any way physically attracted to her, she worried whether or not the bond she thought they had formed between them was strong enough for him to come to her aid.
Antek was speaking to his brother now: “You are prepared to do this thing?”
“I am.” Stefan sat on his stallion.
“Why?”
“She is evil. Nelka says—”
“Since when do you believe in the old ways?”
“There may be truth in the old ways. I have not been so brainwashed as you.”
“You know that Nelka’s hatred of the aristocracy is a blind one.”
“And you should not forget your—our—birth, Antek. We will never be accepted as aristocracy, brother. The baron may provide for us, but he is forbidden to pass on his title. His ancestral line dies with him.”
“These are not the real issues here and you know it, Stefan.”
Stefan sat rigid and silent in his saddle.
“Isn’t it true,” Antek continued, “that your reason is a more personal one?”
Anna could sense Stefan tensing at her side.
Antek was unrelenting. “For God’s sake, Stefan, the countess is married and with child. What could your expectations have been? . . . You would forfeit her life now to salve your pride? . . . Answer me!”
Suddenly, Nelka screeched, “To the devil with her!”
Anna turned to see the woman raising the poker into the air above her horse’s flank.
“Stop!” Antek shouted.
Nelka raised it still higher and started to bring it down. For Anna these things seemed to slow in time . . . and she braced herself for the sudden reaction of the horse.
In a flash, however, Antek fell upon Nelka and wrested the instrument from her clawlike grasp, flinging it across the room.
At that moment Stefan leapt from his horse onto his brother and they crashed to the floor.
For a few moments Antek lay stunned, sprawled face down on the straw-strewn floor. Stefan was atop him, forcing his brother’s hands together at the small of his back. “Nelka,” he called, “fetch some rope!”
But before she could even process the command, Antek pulled his arms free. He drew in his knees and bolted upward, disengaging Stefan’s hold.
Stefan was on his feet now, too, and the twins squared off, moving in a slow, witting circle, each doggedly eyeing the other. They moved cautiously close to one another, their arms shooting out then withdrawing, while each searched for the advantage of first contact. Anna suspected that this had been for them a ritual game while growing up. The ferocity in their expressions now, however, indicated that this time it was more than a rite of passage.
As if by design, each gripped the other by the wrists now, their bodies arching backward and starting to revolve, faster and faster. It was like some bizarre Russian dance, Anna thought, a dance of competition.
Nelka and her cronies moved back to give room. Janka closed the large door and then—unobserved by everyone except Anna—she fell back into the shadows and slipped away.
Round and round, the twins continued in a blinding swirl, until the legs of one began to falter slightly. Amazingly, the other—who was it?—was able to increase his speed and take the advantage now. He was soon dragging his brother for several revolutions until, with one final and deliberate thrust, he released him and sent him crashing into one of the stall’s wooden supports.
Upon impact, there was a bone-crushing sound and the beaten brother slid to the floor. The head lay in defeat on his chest, but Anna could distinguish the mole on his cheek.
“Get up!” Stefan commanded. “I’m not finished with you yet.”
Stefan walked over to where Antek lay, dazed but conscious, and kicked him in the ribs. “I said to get up!” He lifted his leg to kick again, but as he swung it forward Antek grasped it, and holding to it, started to rise from the floor.
Stefan’s arms were flailing about as he tried to both strike Antek and keep his balance. Antek was standing now, and with one strong pull on the captive leg, he brought his brother to the floor with a heavy thud. He instantly fell upon him, and they rolled and thrashed in the straw.
Stefan came up perched on Antek’s stomach, his knees pinning down his twin’s arms to the floor. His fists, one then the other, slammed into Antek’s face. Blood began to flow.
Anna was struggling to free her hands. The rope loosened slightly, but she could only watch the scene unfold, unable to do anything, unable to look away.
The battering continued. Finally, Antek was able to topple his twin off to the side. In seconds they were on their feet and face to face, not touching, moving in a slow, calculating circle. The room was silent as a catacomb. Antek was bleeding heavily.
Anna’s bonds were loosening. She suspected that Antek had been reticent to come to hard, fistic blows with his twin and would have preferred wrestling as a means to a settlement. Now, though, his body straightened, signaling a new determination. It was as though he knew that if he didn’t fight on Stefan’s terms he would be beaten.
Stefan thrust his fist toward Antek’s face again. His hand sailed through empty air, though, as Antek shifted swiftly to the side. This afforded Antek the opportunity to seize the offensive, and he propelled his fist into his brother’s middle. Stefan immediately doubled over. At once Antek’s fist crashed into Stefan’s already contorted face, springing his brother once again into an upright position—and yet another that pitched him backward seven or eight paces.
When Stefan pulled himself to his feet, he held the poker in his hand!
Anna’s hands were almost free now and she worked feverishly. She would not be the cause of one brother killing the other.
Nelka and the others didn’t stir; they stared as if hypnotized by the violence. They didn’t notice that Anna’s hands had come free.
Stefan staggered like a drunk toward the alerted Antek, who stood to face him. As Stefan rushed the last few steps, his powerful arm and poker moved through the air in a wide whirring arc.
Anna pulled the rag from her mouth and screamed.
No one paid any attention to her.
Antek proved just agile enough to jump aside, and the poker came down on the rim of a water trough, splintering the wood. Anna’s voice fell silent at the sound.
Before Stefan could lift it again, Antek’s foot came down and wrenched it from his brother’s grasp. Antek caught hold of Stefan by the scruff of the neck now and thrust his head forward and downward into the full water trough.
After some seconds, Stefan’s face bobbed to the surface and he gasped for air. Antek forced him under again. The drowning Stefan struggled awkwardly to lash out behind him, but Antek stood clear of his reach and leaned more heavily upon his bother’s neck and shoulders.
Stefan couldn’t bring his head up again.
Anna suddenly became aware of her own silence. “Stop, Antek!” she called out. “Stop it at once! You’re killing him!” She continued to scream, scarcely aware of what words she used. She had no way to alight from the horse
or she would have run over to stop him.
At last, Antek looked back at Anna. “Please Antek,” she said in a calmer but intense voice, “please!”
His eyes widened as rationality seemed to flow once more through his veins. But was it too late?
He pulled his twin from the trough and laid him face down on the floor. Stefan had stopped struggling. Anna was certain he was dead.
A little gurgle, however, then a faint gasp told her otherwise, and she thanked God.
Stefan’s breathing was nearly regular when Witek entered.
“What is happening here?” he boomed. Janka hovered nervously in the shadows behind him. Anna silently blessed the woman for going against Nelka and bringing the clan leader.
Silence.
“Will not one of my sons speak?”
Stefan was picking himself up from the floor, his eyes averting his father’s.
“They meant to banish the Countess Berezowska,” Antek said.
Except for Nelka, the women shrank back.
As Witek came further into the stable, Nelka moved forward to meet him. “She has brought bad luck with her. She must be driven out. See how she pits brother against brother? She has used the devil’s charms to beguile Antek—”
Witek lifted his hand to silence his mother. “Can’t you see, woman? You have set brother against brother. Not the countess. Would it have pleased you if one had killed the other? Get you from me before I forget you have a place in this family—before you shame me further!”
Nelka opened her prune-like mouth to speak, but she thought better of it, shot a last look of hatred at Anna, and whisked from the stable, the other women—except for Yanka—following sheepishly.
Antek helped Anna from the horse.
“You were aiding your grandmother in this?” Witek was asking Stefan.
Stefan voiced no answer.
“Make ready to return to Baron Galki’s at once, Stefan. You are more his son than mine, it seems. But we will talk before you leave.”
Head bowed, Stefan limped from the stable.
“I’m ashamed and very sorry, Countess,” Witek said. “I did not retrieve you from the winter wilderness to submit you to this. Forgive me.”
Push Not the River Page 30
